


Coming Home

by heeroluva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John enters Sherlock’s life, Lestrade isn’t so sure of his place in it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_thinktank](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_thinktank/gifts).



> Written for [](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/profile)[**holmestice**](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/) for [](http://the_thinktank.livejournal.com/profile)[**the_thinktank**](http://the_thinktank.livejournal.com/). This spans from pre to post series. It originally was supposed to be Lestrade/John/Sherlock… didn’t quite turn out that way, but could possibly be seen as a precursor to such a relationship. Originally posted [here](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/116903.html). All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.

Lestrade may not have been the smartest man, but he was good at his job, and tried his best. However, sometimes his best wasn’t good enough, and that’s when Sherlock had entered the picture. A druggie, he’d thought at first, a stark raving mad druggie that Lestrade had brushed off until it was proven that Sherlock was right. Again and again it happened. The man was both brilliant and infuriating. But Lestrade found himself drawn to Sherlock, fascinated by the conundrum that he was.

It had taken a failed marriage and a lot of research to finally admit that he wasn’t interested in sex, and even longer for him to be okay with that (at least partially). When Sherlock had asked him out on a date, what a shock that had been. But Sherlock had known of course, known where Lestrade’s interests lay, or where they didn’t as the case was. It had been odd at first, strange as he learned himself and Sherlock, but it had worked.

When John entered the equation, Lestrade began to worry. He’d never been a jealous man, working hard for and content with what he had. But with John, Lestrade’s ordered world was blown to pieces (not that any relationship with Sherlock would truly be orderly), and he was overcome with irrational worry that Sherlock would stray like a child with a shiny new toy.

At first Lestrade had wondered if Sherlock had done it out of spite. He’d asked exactly once, early on in their relationship if he would move in with Sherlock. Lestrade had said no. It was still too new. There had been too many uncertainties. He wasn’t willing to field the rumors that such an act would cause. He wasn’t ashamed of what they had, far from it, but from his experience people didn’t understand. Lestrade was a private man and didn’t feel the need to explain matters to people that had no right nosing around his business. He wondered if things would have gone differently if he’d taken Sherlock up on his offer.

As much as Sherlock denied it and didn’t act on it, there was no doubt that he was a sexual man, at least sometimes. Lestrade had felt the evidence of it on more than one occasion as they’d lain together. Despite it all, Lestrade had seen Sherlock’s attraction to John right off, and he really couldn’t blame him. And then came uncertainty. John could offer Sherlock what he couldn’t, be what Sherlock needed when Lestrade couldn’t provide it. It was like his failed marriage all over again. He felt that he was lacking, like he was less than a man again. It was all utter rubbish, but Lestrade couldn’t help but dwell on it.

It seemed all Sherlock could talk about was John when he wasn’t on a case, and it hurt to see that flush of excitement, that passion directed towards another when until recently it had always been directed towards Lestrade. So that was when Lestrade began to distance himself, coming up with excuses to cancel their dates, working extra hours to avoid visiting (not that he’d spent a night at Sherlock’s flat since John had moved in).

It didn’t really hit home until the case with the bomber, with Moriarty, that ended with Sherlock in the hospital. Standing outside the window, watching Sherlock who was so grey and fragile looking against the stark white hospital sheets, Lestrade reeling as he realized how long it had been since they’d spent any time together or even talked outside a case. And seeing John by his bedside, Sherlock’s limp hand clasped in John’s was like a physical blow that had him taking a step back and swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Feeling the weight of a gaze on him, Lestrade met John’s angry eyes and steeled himself, turning to leave. Maybe it was for the best; maybe he’d been deluding himself into thinking that he could have a relationship without the pressures of giving more than he could.

“It should be you in there.” John’s words echoed down the empty hall.

Lestrade froze mid-step, his back ramrod straight.

“If you want to end it, do so, don’t keep stringing Sherlock along. He won’t admit it, but he’s been hurting, throwing himself into cases. He deserves better.”

Suddenly angry, Lestrade turned and stalked towards John, but the other man stood tall not the slightest bit intimidated. “You think I don’t know that? Sherlock’s brilliant, amazing. I’m just a dead beat detective that’s holding him back.” Deflating, Lestrade turned to leave, but John’s words stopped him again.

“I never took you for a coward, Lestrade.”

Lestrade didn’t rise to the bait though. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew he’d been running. “Take care of him,” he finally said. John’s bark of laughter had him turning back again, the reaction unexpected.

“You’re jealous,” John said in disbelief. “You think that Sherlock would—” John broke off, shaking his head. “Of course you would. The entirety of London seems to think so, so why wouldn’t you?”

Lestrade just stared at John in bewilderment, wondering what he was going on about.

“There’s nothing between me and Sherlock. I inadvertently propositioned him that first night, and he made it clear that he wasn’t interested in that. Anyway, it’s obvious where his interest lies if you listen to him long enough. It’s always ‘Lestrade this’ and ‘Lestrade that’.”

Hope blossomed in Lestrade’s chest, a feeling that he’d been thoroughly squashing for some time as he let himself stew in self-pity. It was embarrassing really.

“You don’t—” Lestrade stopped, deciding it wasn’t appropriate to ask.

But John understood and answered anyway, a slow flush spreading across his cheeks and a wry smile twisting his lips. “Sherlock’s like gravity. The closer you get, the faster you fall.” Realizing how that must sound, he hurried to add, “But I would never— Sherlock’s feelings are clear, and I respect that. But don’t keep doing this to him.”

“I’ve been a right prat,” Lestrade finally said after a moment of silence.

“Yes,” John readily agreed, causing Lestrade to glare. “Go. Sit with him. The doctors said he should be waking up soon.”

Lestrade hesitated, unsure. He wanted to, but he had responsibilities, so many reports that needed to be done, and worst of all Moriarty was still out there. But finally he decided it could wait, just this once. For Sherlock.

He shot a glance at John who nodded at him, and Lestrade made his way back to Sherlock’s room, private of course. Taking a seat in the chair that John had recently occupied, Lestrade mimicked him and took Sherlock’s hand within his own.

It was shocking to see him like this, so still. Usually Sherlock was in constant motion, even in sleep. It had been startling the first time Lestrade had experienced it, never having shared a bed with such an active partner before, but after a while he’d gotten used to it, and admitted that he’d missed it now.

Sherlock’s hand suddenly tensed in Lestrade’s grasp, and he let out a moan, his eyelashes fluttering. For a brief instance, Sherlock’s eyes opened and seeing Lestrade he smiled before unconsciousness took him again. As cliché it may have sounded, for Lestrade it was like coming home after a long time away. But he wasn’t so ignorant to think that everything would be perfect. He had a lot of making up to do. They needed to talk. Or he needed to talk and then listen as Sherlock called him an idiot, and put it behind him. Sherlock might forget, but Lestrade wasn’t likely to anytime soon.

There was still the off chance that Sherlock could tell him to sod off, but if he didn’t, Lestrade wasn’t going to take his second chance for granted. And then there was still John, who Lestrade noted out of the corner of his eye was watching them with a sad wistful smile. He respected the doctor, and despite his jealousy had seen that John’s friendship had done well for Sherlock. Things would change, he knew, but how Lestrade was unsure. One thing he knew at least was that he was done running.

Sherlock shifted on his bed and Lestrade’s attention was drawn to his face which was scrunched up in confusion. It might have been cute if it wasn’t so heart wrenching to know that he was the source of it. “Lestrade,” Sherlock rasped out. “Didn’t expect you.”

Yes, Lestrade was a prick and felt lower than low.

Sherlock tugged on Lestade’s hand weakly, and when he didn’t move said, “Lay with me.”

Lestrade thought about protesting. The bed was small, definitely not made for two people. Anyone could walk in. He was dirty and stank, not having been home in two days. But one look at Sherlock’s hopeful face stilled any protest he might have had. Squeezing in next to Sherlock, he pulled him close, savoring the feeling of being next to him after so long.

“Missed you,” Sherlock breathed against his neck.

Lestrade’s chest tightened at the words. “I’m so sorry,” he replied, but Sherlock was asleep again, a real sleep that had him moving slightly against Lestrade. It was good. Lestrade knew he couldn’t stay long, but he would savor the moments he had. Things were a long way from being fixed, but this was a start.


End file.
